Learning to run again

Sunday, December 11, 2011

It's been a while. I've mostly been posting stuff I wrote earlier. Finals are done and I (have to be) satisfied with my grades because there is not much I can do now! Oh, I won't be too hard on myself, my grades are just fine. The B in economics? There is a reason I am not a business major! I will stick to my social sciences. Now that the stress of school is off, I can devote some quality to time to my dog, catching up on books I've wanted to read, and writing, that is, between caring for my parents, both of whom are having surgery this month, and my job at a daycare. These past couple of days have been calm, though.

I am back running. I will probably be saying this off and on for the rest of my life, but I'm not giving it up. I was given the go to run about two weeks ago, but decided to wait until I got home to start. The last thing I needed would be to re-injure myself in the middle of finals, especially since I left my bike at home and would have to walk (more like hobble) everywhere around campus. I arrived home Thursday night so running would have to wait until Friday. I felt warm enough after taking the dog for a nice long walk to run, so I did. 5 minutes on, 1 minute off times 4. Workout of champions right there... But it felt amazing to be back running again. I didn't time myself. I am trying my utmost to stop obsessing over time and pace. It's difficult, but I am getting there. I make myself start between the little markers that measure each quarter of a mile along the path so I am not sure my distance. (and I sincerely hope I left my gps watch back at school! heck, I don't even know where the old thing is) But, I have run that path hundreds of times and I pretty much always know where I am along it and how far I am from one place to another. My mind races with mental calculations as I check my watch to see when my 5 minutes of running is up. I figured I was going sub-8:00 pace. Dang. I haven't run in months. I should have slowed down, but I was just running how I felt.

That's biggest difference right there: running how I feel, as long as I want and as hard as I want. There is no season to prepare for, no times I am supposed to meet, and no one to compete with except my own stubborn self. What a difference. I don't know if I like it. I certainly feel more free, like someone took the weight off my shoulders and the tracking device off my wrist and set me free to do as I please. I am praying that I will be able to handle this freedom. I am nervous without the constant supervision of my trainers and even teammates that I could very easily slip back into old habits or begin new ones. The desire to run collegiately is the only thing that has kept the weight on. Without that...well, I'm not sure. And, though being home is a relief from the demands of school, the demands of being home aren't much less consuming. Both my parents will need me to keep the house running, the dog fed, and food prepared. I will need more than just my own strength for this break.

Tuesday, December 6, 2011

I expected Bailey to deem me insane, but to my surprise she only looked concerned. Bailey knew where I was coming from. She had been there. How relieving and utterly comforting it was to read what her eyes were saying and to know that someone has been down the same road as me and come back healed. Thank God we were in a public place or I would have broke down crying and melted into my own puddle of hot salty tears. But, I remained composed the whole time as I willingly revealed more and more about my disorder. Bailey spoke next.

“I would weigh myself and freak out, literally scream at the scale, if I gained an ounce. It consumed me. It dominated every part of my life.”

My fits with the scale were in silence. I let my anger out in tears or on the treadmill. I would weigh myself three times a day: when I woke up, after practice, and after dinner. I would refrain from drinking water after practice so I could go home and see how much I lost. Never mind that whatever I drank after working out was only water weight, I had to see how low I could go. But lower was never low enough. Each time I stepped on the scale lighter than the last time, this tingling sensation, like some sort of twisted excitement, would shoot from my toes to my fingers. The satisfaction remained until food touched my lips. I would no longer weigh what the scale said before if I ate. But I know I had to eat. I wanted to run. That’s where the irony comes in; the only thing that kept me going was the very thing that released the demon to start with. Pretty fucked up if you ask me (or anyone else). I was aware of all the complications of starving yourself, but they didn’t matter because I was running well and I looked good. Surely I wasn’t damaging anything if I was performing at the level I was. I have ever been so dead wrong in my life. I didn’t have a period from August to January and then not again until late April. I lied to the doctors by keeping track of when I should have my menstrual cycle. It sure is a pity when someone with such an attention for detail uses the gift to harm herself.

I told Bailey all of this and she listened as intently as ever. Damn, she is an awesome listener. I don’t think she interrupted me once. I suddenly felt uneasy and even nervous when she spoke about the next part of her journey. Bailey told me how a camp she attended out in Arizona, Remuda, I believe it’s called, changed her life. That’s how she is where she is now: healed, strong, ready to help others, and most importantly at peace with her body. At Remuda she discovered she wasn’t alone in her habits and way of thinking. Many girls out there had been abused as well. My face contorted when she said that. If I have come this far sharing my story then there was no use trying to hide anything. I told her briefly about my abuse. I was slowly, or rather quickly in the grand scheme of things, allowing all my dark, shameful secrets seep out. I felt like a clay statue, hardened in my ways and unwilling to accept advice. But the sands of time are wearing my guard thin. All I need are tears now, my tears, to saturate this clay covering. Then it would melt into a puddle of mud and I could walk away clean and able to breathe fresh air.

Bailey asked if I had ever considered going to a treatment center like that. I said I hadn’t. I don’t know if I am ready for that yet. Then again, who is ready to go? Very few, I suppose. Our conversation continued as we discussed the lingering effects of anorexia. Her hair was brittle, my bones were thin. She talked about how alive she feels now and how through overcoming her illness her perception on life has totally changed. She lets her body be the guide and the rest just flows. I know I should want that freedom and self-respect, but I just don’t feel it. We are at two different places of a possibly unending journey. Even physical breaking hasn’t brought me to tears yet. My clay shell may be cracked, but it remains intact.

“That’s why I decided not to run. I didn’t want being around girls thinner and faster than me to trigger anything. I know I would end up in trouble again. Now I run on my own. I sign up for races and run when I feel like it and rest when I don’t.”

What an awesome attitude. When I get myself out of this funk, I want an attitude just like that: free and full of self-acceptance. I don’t think you can ever truly “recover” from an eating disorder, but you can control it. Then again, maybe you can. I don’t know if I can. It’s like an addiction, you can be sober and you can say no to a drink, but there is always that little voice, that little demon living inside you head telling you take a sip, not to eat, to light up. It’s up to you to suppress that voice. That is where strength comes in, personal strength only God can see, and the incomprehensible will to heal that begins with self-forgiveness.

Sunday, December 4, 2011

Two months after that conversation, I was declared medically disqualified from athletic competition for the remainder of my college career. The pain in my foot was diagnosed as a stress fracture, my third stress fracture to be exact. I knew it was time to stop. I ran a couple races, all I had asked God for, and I was now at His mercy. He let me stray and enjoy myself. Now He is going to set me straight whether I like it or not. And I think I do. It’s easy to know God has a plan for me. He has one for everyone. It’s the hardest thing I will ever do to accept and follow where He is guiding me, especially if I don’t want to go. But He will continue to break me (and this may be literally) until I submit to His will. He is not punishing me by any means. Yes, my foot hurts, but the pain is not severe. If breaking my foot it what it takes to set me on the correct path, break away! It’s pretty hard to doubt the One who created the universe; I think God knows what He is doing.

A couple of weeks after the diagnosis, Bailey invited me to lunch. I responded yes in a heartbeat. By the time we met up, I had admitted to my therapist that I had “eating issues.” The brief look of satisfaction swept over my therapists face before the sympathy and concern came out. She knew all along. So did I. Who am I fooling? My therapist and I had briefly discussed my relationship with food before I had lunch with Bailey, so Bailey was the first, and still one of the only, to know the details of my eating disorder.

We met at a soup/salad/sandwich restaurant on campus. It is pretty much the only place I will eat on campus since I can control what goes into my salad. (no gluten or nasty dressings) I was relieved when she suggested the place so I wouldn’t have to explain my reasons for wanting to eat there. (not fried, covered in cheese, or wrapped in bread) We both ordered salads and took our meals outside to enjoy the unseasonable warm November weather. It was kind of ironic; two anorexics speaking about overcoming their issues while picking at salads sans dressing or meat. After breaking the ice with small talk we cut the crap and got right to what we were both dying to talk about: eating disorders, ours in particular. Bailey knew I was uncomfortable with speaking about it so she told me a bit about her past first. She had anorexia and has recovered. She asked me when I started having issues. My secrets started to seep out. Surprisingly, it didn’t hurt as much as I thought.

“It started when I was in first grade.” I responded ashamedly, no louder than a whisper.

“Oh wow. I thought I was bad at 14.”

“Well I didn’t start restricting anything then. I just became aware that I was fat and I wanted to be thin. I started counting calories then, but never really doing anything about it. I didn’t have the self-control, so to speak, to do anything then.”

“When did you start restricting?”

“Oh, maybe fifth grade, but never for long. A week maybe, and then I would have to eat something. And then off and on in middle school. It wasn’t until my sophomore year that things got bad.”

“Do you know what started it? I know for me it just happened. I just decided I wanted to be thin. I wanted control. I didn’t know it then, but it was definitely a control issue. I am the oldest of seven and a twin. I didn’t get much attention.”

“I bet not! I am an only child. I can have all the attention I want with sugar on top, but my mom is sick. She has MS. (I went on to explain the illness) She spends most of the days on her bed and doesn’t really know what I am doing. I could run a meth lab upstairs and she’d be none the wiser. Half the time if I don’t make noise she thinks I’m gone and acts all surprised when I walk down the stairs. We never ate together as a family. And I was a real picky eater so I never ate what they ate. I made my own meals. She never even asked what I ate. My dad was at work the whole day and he wouldn’t ask anyway. I could get away with a lot.”

“Yeah, I get ya. I was the same way. My parents didn’t really pay attention. I don’t know, it just came on so quickly. I lost weight fast and my hair started to get all wirey. It still is like that.”

Bailey demonstrated how she could get her blonde bangs to stand straight up without any support. My hair is just thin. It’s shiny and smooth and straight but it hangs in strands, leaving gaps you can see through. I told her that’s why mine is always up in a ponytail. I don’t understand how she looked so normal. Even her hair, it just looked like it had been damaged from the straightener. She was barely taller than me, trim, but fit, and had a sparkle in her eyes. I watched that sparkle turn into concern as I revealed more of my past.

“I never really skipped meals. I ate about 5 times a day. The portions just got smaller and smaller. It was enough to keep me going. To keep me running 40 miles per week. I became picky about what I ate. And I ate slowly, terribly slowly, to savor every bite, to make it last. I ate food in certain ways, too. I would pick the crusts of sandwiches and eat it first, counting to at least five before taking my next bite. I would eat the fruit and veggies at meal first, then the sandwich or “main course.” Cereal was precisely measured, as was the light soymilk that accompanied it. I would do homework during breakfast, lunch, and dinner. It provided distraction from food for me and it distracted others from seeing what I didn’t eat.”

Tuesday, November 29, 2011

I honestly can’t believe I was sitting across from Bailey about to admit something I had never told anyone. The demon was about to breathe fresh air. If the air didn’t rekindle the fire maybe it would do the opposite and extinguish it. I don’t know what sparked my desire to expose what I have kept in the darkest corridors of my mind after nearly a decade of compulsive concealment. Or maybe I do know why. It may have just been Bailey herself coupled with the fracture in my foot that inspired me to speak out about my anorexia. About two months ago Bailey and I ran into each other on the concourse. We hadn’t seen each other since spring semester and even then we only saw each other in passing. She had wanted to walk on to the cross country team last fall, but we were told she couldn’t get something passed through NCAA clearing house for whatever reason. Most of the girls on the team agreed she didn’t belong on the team anyway. Bailey had never run cross country or track in high school. Her only running experience was through soccer and a few road races. Of course she wasn’t a real runner! But, my insecurities about my fractures and poor health back then prevented me from judging Bailey based on what she hadn’t done. To me, she and I were equal. So she never ran in high school and couldn’t meet the academic record requirements—big deal. At least she could physically run. I was still in the walking cast, unsure about my chances of being able to compete at all.

Over a year had passed since we first met in the doctor’s office waiting for our physical examinations and we were still in the same position; she wasn’t running on the team and neither was I. We struck up a conversation in which Bailey asked how running was going. Though she was probably just trying to find something to talk about, at that point in time, running was an open wound, bleeding emotion and regret through all facets of my life. Responding that I was doing great was not going to happen, especially with the fragile emotional state I was in. I didn’t need to speak; without muttering a word, my facial expression said it all. My foot had started bothering me about a week and a half before our conversation and I was absolutely certain I was done running competitively. Even if the damn thing healed the next day, collegiate running was over for me. I told Bailey running wasn’t going, that I was once again injured, (I didn’t know it was a fracture at this point in time) and that I didn’t want to run anymore. Judging by the look of utter surprise on her face, I don’t think she was expecting that answer. Bailey wanted to know more, as I assumed anyone would after I made such proclamations, so I told her my extensive injury history and how I had crap bone density and I was tired of beating myself up to the point where walking to class and driving my car were dreaded chores. Her look of surprise shifted to one of empathy. She said she understood completely, and that for her, running on her own was all she wanted. She liked the freedom of choosing where, when, and how far she ran without having to adhere to anyone’s schedule. She also mentioned she had struggled with eating issues in the past and she didn’t want running on the team to trigger any unwanted behavior.

Shit! Eating issues? She mentioned eating issues and a dark cloud of stigma didn’t erupt over her? People didn’t stop and stare and point? Maybe I could do that, too…My eyes lit up as I nodded in agreement. I whispered a raspy, “me too.” We changed the subject after that, but I could tell something clicked between us, some familiar battle on familiar ground. I didn’t need to speak a syllable. She knew. I knew that she knew. I was relieved I didn’t have to say anything more. I wasn’t ready to. That was the closest I had ever come to admitting to anyone that I was anorexic. Hell, I didn’t even know I was anorexic until my therapist slapped it my plate. I read list after list of symptom on line to discover I was the spitting image of an anorexic. Fun stuff. Talking with Bailey sparked my curiosity once more. I couldn’t wait to get home and scour the Internet for more information; I wasn’t the only one with problems! But now, as I devour articles and blogs online I am fully aware that I am sick, pretty darn sick. I might not be anywhere as thin now as I was at my worst, but my thinking hasn’t changed an ounce. I am fat and I despise who I see in the mirror and as a result I have fucked up any chance of running collegiately. Bailey and I ended the conversation agreeing to have lunch together soon. I was starving to hear what she had to say and I am pretty sure she was just as hungry.

Monday, November 21, 2011

I had a friend back in high school who kept (and probably still does) a book of lists. Lists of her favorite movies, lists of her favorite desserts, lists of her least favorite places, lists of what annoys her, and so on. She shared it with our literature class one day and it was hilarious! The girl was funny to start with, but hearing her read off lists like "10 worst scenarios to be in" and including the literature class itself was downright entertaining. I thought it was kind of dumb at first, to keep lists of stuff and all, but the more I though about it, the more intriguing the idea became. So, now a couple years later, I will make some lists myself.

Let's start with something ordinary, yet necessary.
10 things that make me happy:
1. puppies, especially mine.
2. thunderstorms
3. walks in the woods
4. spending time with friends
5. chocolate, the darker the better
6. making new friends
7. the beach
8. the clean feeling after getting out of the shower
9. riding my bike
10. working with children
and number 11, RUNNING.

5 things that bring me joy:
1. God (learning, serving, worshipping)
2. working with children and watching them grow
3. nature. being outside.
4. speaking with a friend about issues we both struggle with
5. reading scripture

Situations I'd never want to be in:
1. Falling off the back of a treadmill
2. falling off my bike going down a hill at 30mph
3. getting stuck in an elevator
4. having to actually do CPR on someone
5. getting stranded in the middle of bfe w/o gas in my car
6. singing solo in front of an audience
7. pulling an all-nighter to finish a paper
8. running out of air while scuba diving.

ehh, I could go on and on with lists. I may intersperse some lists in between posts.
for now, though, I think I will study for my lab final next week.

Sunday, November 20, 2011

I scanned the cardio equipment. All the ellipticals were taken and the treadmill is still off limits. Guess I’d have to ride the stationary bike again. At least I had a choice of recumbent or upright. I chose upright. This gym paled in comparison to the mega-gym I worked at over the summer, but with the free employee membership gone now that I was back in school and unable to work, I had to revert to printing out a free 7-day pass to another gym in the area. This time of year I’d rather be on the trails feeling the sweat turn cold on my cheeks and neck and hearing the leaves crunch beneath my feet. But, only having been out of the walking cast for two weeks, running was still so far in the future I might as well spend my time preparing for the apocalypse predicted to happen next December.

Anyway, I was in the gym, surrounded by middle-age “weekend warriors” pushing the redline jogging at 5 miles per hour, old men lifting weights, and one gangly teen trying his best to jog for more than two minutes without taking a break. I stuck my headphones in my ears and turned up the volume just loud enough to drown out the music in the gym. And the sting of not being able to run. As I began to pedal, the little screen on the bike flashed to life. Did I want “random hill workout,” “cardio blast workout,” or good ole “manual?” Tough call. I pressed the “manual” button and set the time for 45 minutes. That should be about the equivalent of a couple shots in terms of easing the pain. I have never gotten drunk, but I imagine exercising has the same effect for me. Both are addicting activities, drinking and exercising. At least I don’t break laws with my addiction, only bones.

I watched the people around me, my eyes never staying in one place for more than a moment. That is one thing I do like about the gym-other people. It is a lot easier to work harder when there others around even though I know they could care less about what I am doing just as I could care less what they are doing. I don’t really need an audience for motivation; I have enough determination to kick out a kick-ass workout on a treadmill 3 days in a row in the corner of a dimly-lit basement, but that is another story. The company of others is nice, though. That’s my favorite environment to be in, a social aggregate, surrounded by others but not interacting with them. It’s a safety zone. No one expects me to talk to them or to explain myself and what I am doing. I don’t have to entertain anyone and honestly, watching others is entertainment for me.

I was about 25 minutes into my bike “workout,” if you could call it that, when the man who was lifting a minute ago stepped on the empty treadmill to the right of my bike. I stole a quick glance in that direction just to see who would be flinging sweat on me shortly. My heart froze for a split second before beating clear out of my chest. My eyes ran down the man’s body again. Every muscle in my body contracted. the heart rate monitor on my bike jumped 15 beats per minute. This man looked almost exactly like him. But this man wasn’t him, thank God. His hair was a similar cut and a similar color-a dark sandy brown color, and very short, short enough that it couldn’t be styled. This man’s skin tone was the same tan as his, almost olive, the color of one who has been exposed to the elements. The wrinkles around this man’s eyes were what really struck me. My stomach churned. I was certain I would be the one flinging bodily fluid, and the fluid wouldn’t be sweat. The permanent creases around eyes that have seen too much rested underneath eyebrows that were a shade lighter than this man’s hair. The eyes triggered my reaction of uncontrollable nerves and cold sweat-while exercising. This man’s face shape was different. This man’s head was squarer, his jaw a bit more pronounced. This man’s ears didn’t stick out as much. Their physiology was the similar, but this man appeared a little heavier. Their running style was different, too. This man ran with an even gait, his heels hitting the belt as his arms swung symmetrically at his sides. He ran with one foot turned out on the back kick, he landed on his mid foot, and his arms made a lopsided ellipse, swinging more towards the right. He has the stride of a man who has been running for decades. Quirky, but efficient. I could recognize his gait a mile away.

This isn’t the only time some random man in a gym or in a park has triggered the memories. Most times I think I see him, I know it can’t be him for one reason or another: I am hundreds of miles away at school, I am in a gym where he is not a member, or he’d be teaching that time of day. I could usually push the thoughts out of my head. After the initial shock, and return of rational thinking I knew this man couldn’t be him no matter how alike they looked. He wouldn’t have a membership to a gym, let alone this one. He has plenty of workout equipment in his basement. He would never run on a treadmill, either. He and I ran in thunderstorms, ice, downpours, temperatures above 95 degrees, temperatures below 15 degrees, and one time during a flood. We only cancelled a run once due to the weather because neither of us was crazy enough to run in a downpour at 5:30 in the morning, and besides, that morning the roof was leaking over my bed. Rationalizing the situation did calm my nerves and by the end of the workout, I had settled down substantially.

The tranquility lasted until I got on the elliptical. Of course the only elliptical not in use would be the one in front of the TV with coverage of the Sandusky scandal. Fuck. Just my luck. The nausea returned and my sweat turned cold once again. I looked at the person on either side of me, fully expecting them to sense my uneasiness that was quickly spiraling into panic. They didn’t. Both had earphones in and were focused on the pro football game on the other television. My eyes were glued to the screen as I read the captions crawling across the screen…”Said it was just horseplay…” “took him 17 seconds to reply no…” “He was in the locker room with them…” As painful as the report was to watch, I had to watch it. I couldn’t turn away. It was like being stuck in traffic and staring at a car accident in front of you after surviving an accident yourself. You want to look away from the shattered glass, disfigured vehicles, the EMT’s lifting a gurney into the ambulance, and guts spewed across the road. Gawking at another’s misfortune isn’t polite, but you are stuck in traffic and can’t move. There is nothing else to look at but the scene in front of you. One person’s poor judgment affects so many more lives than the one in the other vehicle. Are you entitled to look then, if you are prevented from moving anywhere until the smoke has cleared, especially if you have experienced the same trauma? Shouldn’t you at least be permitted to console the survivor, if nothing more than to offer a word of empathy and understanding? Or is it better to watch from a distance realizing your attempts to reach out are fruitless if that person is not ready to heal? The story on the news ended. I extended the timer on the elliptical and turned the resistance way up. The numbness began to set in.

Monday, November 14, 2011

I should be studying right now. But I am not. Far too much is running around in my head right now to concentrate on the topic of collective behavior I need to learn for my sociology test. Or stuffing my brain full of history terms and dates. So I will write. Maybe I'll calm down a bit.

A while back I called my mother on the way back from class to explain the condition of my foot. Again. When I called the evening before it was after eight so the phone ringing probably woke her up. She has Multiple Sclerosis and her memory is fading fast. The conversation we had confirmed this. As I recall it went like this:
-Hey mom.
-Hey. How are you?
-Ummm. Alight?
-Yeah? Are you walking back from class?
-Yeah...so I heard from dad you need me to explain what's up with my foot again?
-Yeah. So it's not better? Did you see the foot doctor from out of town? Is he gonna let you run?
-No. Fractures don't heal in two weeks. Yeah, I saw the orthopedist. He doesn't determine wether I run or not. The doc here does.
-So you are still on the team?
-Yes. they aren't gonna kick me off half way through an injury. They actually do care about me...
-Uhuh. so are you gonna keep running?
-Yeah, eventually. Not on the team, though. I broke. Doc said one more break and I can't run.
-Oh, but I really want you to run.Yeah, so do I... I thought.
-I will run again. on my own. at my own pace. so I have a body left by the time I am thirty.
-Oh. I don't want you to be injured!

I let the acorn I was squeezing in my hand drop on the asphalt and roll into the storm drain. Talking with her is like talking to wall. No, walls don't answer back with ridiculous questions. Or ask the same ones. I decided to change the subject before I had to start repeating myself.

-So mom, did you get my text message? (I was calling her on the house phone)
-No! Ooh, let me go read it!
I had sent her a text saying, "happy anniversary. thanks for making me a legitimate child." or something along those lines.
-"Oh shit! Today is our anniversary! I completely forgot! Dad blammit all. I didn't say anything to your father this morning!
-yup. today marks the 23rd anniversary of your marriage.
-That is just awful What if Paul* (my dad) gave me a card tonight and I had nothing for him?
-Then you'd have nothing for him, feel like crap, and so would he.
-I better make a card.
-That would be a good thing to do. Especially if you think he is getting one for you.
-Oh wow. ohhh wow...I can't believe I forgot.
-Somehow I can... but don't worry that's why I am here. in case the fact I am your daughter isn't enough. I will leave a sticky note on your bathroom mirror to remind you when it's the day before Christmas.

I think she missed the sarcasm in the last one. She has never been able to understand it. too bad I am fluent in it. I often wonder why I am so sarcastic. Maybe because humor masks sorrow and anger? Probably. I've been using sarcasm since I learned what it was. That is scary. An elementary schooler sad and angry. Nah, I probably thought it was cool until it did in fact start to satisfy my need to release the negative emotion I felt. That was sixth grade. When my mom was diagnosed with breast cancer for the first time. The first time I realized the world wasn't all good.

In one way, though, her diagnosis was the best thing that has happened to me. It was then I began to pray. Both my parents are Christian, but we never went church save Christmas and Easter. The cancer was caught very early on thanks to her regular mammogram check up. She was going to be fine after her mastectomy. No chemo or radiation needed. When she did come out of surgery just fine, I knew God was real. No one else could make her better so quickly. I prayed every night. I prayed about lots of people. My mom first, a prayer of thanks. For other ill family members, for friends. I didn't really pray for myself. I was doing just fine. And honestly, all things considered, I was doing okay in sixth grade. I was going to school, dealing with middle school drama, dancing, and wanting to be like everyone else. I was pretty typical.

Well that will do it for tonight. I think I have calmed down enough to tackle Mathlusian theory and whatnot. And history. maybe.

*I am changing names in the blog to keep anonymity for both me and the others I will speak about in the future.